


I am the love that dare not speak its name

by wildehoneymilk (killing_my_darlings)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Historical, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, and geralt is his hot neighbor muse, i may add more later hee hee, i'm a huge history buff of course i would, jaskier is a poet in the 1890s, there's a lot of Yearning in these here parts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:15:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24086479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killing_my_darlings/pseuds/wildehoneymilk
Summary: This was all too much for his poor heart to bear. He decided to lay on the floor, gloves tossed away, and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He sighed and hummed to himself. Himself? Perhaps a spirit who roamed within the walls. Perhaps the handsome stranger. Jaskier pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing them to burst.Oh, he was being dramatic. He needed those eyes to see his new neighbor.Or:An acclaimed poet has a new muse, and his series of love poems about a mysterious and enchanting young woman are a shining star in a sea of dead ones.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 5
Kudos: 17





	1. The mirth of a writer is impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief introduction to the Continent's most fresh-faced poet.

It was the studio, the poet found, that made him sit upright. He was already exceptionally poised, ethereal fingers and chin held high, yet there was something in sitting in the chair with a stack of books sat on the table by his side that pulled his spine taught. He thought for a moment that if he turned his head upward to the ceiling, he’d see a puppeteer with long and lean arms hanging over the rafters. But he did not move from the position he was put in. 

It was all perfect. Picturesque and glimmering sat Jaskier’s writing career in his hands cupped to receive water. He had been sitting with his head in his hands at his writing desk, quietly mourning the loss of his newest poem and favorite pair of trousers to an inkwell filled with his preferred dark blue ink, to his assistant knocking on the doorframe. 

“Telephone for you,” she had said. 

And when he answered it to hear he had been invited to be photographed, his ego reinflated itself, no longer bested by a dastardly inkwell to the crotch. He was pampered at the studio; asked if he would like any refreshments, dressed and redressed and once more for good measure, poised with delicate hands, showered in compliments as he held still with the corner of his lips turned up ever so slightly in his permanent smile. 

God save the poet’s ego. 

The publishers began to make copies of his book with his favorite of the portraits he had taken, one where he stared absently just past the camera, his head gently tilted, his hands preoccupied with a book and fingers leafed between the pages. He wore a deep, velveteen violet tailcoat, a black ribbon tied through the collar of his off-white shirt, and a replicated pair of his favorite and soiled black, high waisted trousers. 

He smiled as he walked by the bookstore after his first book was published and displayed alongside his portrait in the biggest window in the shop. Of course, Jaskier of all people, could not resist waltzing in the shop and taking up a copy, running his hands along the midnight blue binding. He stood for a few moments in awe of what he had done. 

Jaskier was born into wealth and fervor. His father, Alfred Pankratz, a stern and wicked man that looked down upon Jaskier for his many artistic affairs, the most appraised one being his writing. His mother was mostly ineffectual, not having any opinion really on her son’s art. 

He held the copy of his poetry close to his chest and purchased it, the shopkeep grinning wide, very pleased with himself for selling to such an esteemed customer. Jaskier left the shop with his book, ego, and pride all piled up together in his arms, the biggest and brightest smile plastered onto his face. 

Jaskier’s peaceful Jack and Jill apartment was bustling, much to his surprise, when he got home, humming a Liszt song he could not quite remember the name of. He sidled through several men carrying wooden boxes of brand new furniture, and it occurred to him then that someone may be moving into the apartment next door. This painted a slight grimace on his face, and he clutched the book closer to his chest, allowing two men to teeter up the stairs under a precarious box. He rushed himself up the stairs and, as he turned to walk into his door, he peered into the apartment that mirrored his own. Standing in the middle of the foyer was a man, one as beautiful as he imagined every perfect woman described, painted, or photographed. 

Jaskier nearly slammed his door shut and rushed to his desk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> follow me on tumblr if you'd like :) 
> 
> https://hissweetkiss.tumblr.com/


	2. Gentle nights give way to gentle souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier goes to a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title of the fic is a line from lord alfred douglas' "two loves," which is my favorite poem!

“A morning routine,” Jaskier once said to his assistant. “Is pertinent to the artistic process.” His was meticulous and complex, but always the same. Every day began as follows:

He roused from an often dreamless sleep and had tea to one of his Liszt records. An hour usually passed before he washed and dressed himself to leave his flat for breakfast at the cafe further in town. Always he ate their brioche and whatever jam he felt delving into. His second cup of tea happened then, as he sat at his usual table on the patio with a book in tow. When he left, he gave the waiter a generous tip for the conversation they often indulged in, walking by the bookstore as his feet led his mind home. 

As for the rest of his day, he hardly had any idea what to do and spent most of it refilling his glass with whatever booze was in the kitchen. Some days he spent hunched over his writing desk with his fingers stained blue and fire out cold, and others he spent pacing his office with a full ashtray in one hand and no inspiration or ideas being forced into his head. 

The poet was positive there was an angel across the way. 

Jaskier began by writing, pouring himself a drink, lighting a cigarette, creating the proper atmosphere for divine intervention to move his trembling hand across the pages and immortalize his newest infatuation. After several lines of utter nonsense, Jaskier tossed away the pen and huffed at the lack of art on his pages.

This was all too much for his poor heart to bear. He decided to lay on the floor, gloves tossed away, and a lit cigarette hanging from his lips. He sighed and hummed to himself. Himself? Perhaps a spirit who roamed within the walls. Perhaps the handsome stranger. Jaskier pushed the heels of his hands against his eyes, willing them to burst. 

Oh, he was being dramatic. He needed those eyes to see his new neighbor. 

The next morning, humming and walking with a particular bounce in his step when he came home from the cafe (his pass by the bookshop yielded a very pleasing result: a sold out sign by his display), Jaskier opened his own mailbox to a royalty check and a lilac colored envelope, sealed in gold wax. He opened it inside, and found a pretty little card. On the off-white card was written, in an oddly powdery purple ink, an invitation to a party that weekend, hosted by the Viscountess Yennefer au Vengerberg. 

Jaskier would not meet his neighbor until the Viscountess’ party.

It was a small, dignified gathering; a dinner party, to tell the truth. The Viscountess was not renowned to be much of a hostess. In fact, she was perceived as quite bitter and strangely wise, materializing in the lives of people who desperately needed help. It was abundantly clear to Jaskier that her social circle was limited when he arrived.

The house was exceedingly large, built with the exact architecture a romantic such as himself would vie for. he wished desperately to run his fingertips against the brick of the exterior, to sit in her garden and stare at the haunting structure, vaguely a castle amongst a field of similarly looming apartment buildings. 

Jaskier took as much of the picture of the exterior as he slowly moved to the front door. a pair of deep stained mahogany doors, much taller than himself stood before him. they too added a specific majesty to the house that made jaskier yearn for his notebook and pens. He knocked to announce his presence, and came to the door a man who wore a strange contraption on his face. it looked as though it were a kind of device used to silence him. Christ, had he dipped too far into something that morning? 

The muted man led him up a grand staircase to yet another set of imposing doors. Jaskier noted to himself how dark the house was. The walls looked as if they had been draped in heavy, black velvet, and the sheer amount of lit candelabras made him feel as though he were within the attic of Dorian Gray's house. 

The man stopped in front of the doors and faced jaskier, opening one of the pair with a hand he had rested on the knob. He was affronted by a shocking deluge of light. inside was an elaborately decorated room, walls covered floor to ceiling in portraits. despite the room being surprisingly well-lit stood, in each corner, a tall candelabra that held at least a dozen candles each. on the right side sat a long bar, holding various drinks and hors d'oeuvres. In the center of the room was an abnormally large table, long and neatly set for dinner. the centerpieces held various types of flowers and a candle for each.

There were, in total, nine people milling about within the space, holding conversation, flirting, sharing quiet looks and small touches. At the table sat four of the nine: Yennefer, a famed photographer, a man who Jaskier recognized as a musician who was pictured in many newspaper articles, and his reclusive neighbor. His heart stuttered in his chest. Yennefer noticed him and stood to greet him. 

As she moved to him, she spoke in a fashionable and silky voice, one that made Jaskier want to fall to his knees and worship the ground she walked on. “Oh, good evening, dearest Jaskier.” She turned to the man, who Jaskier forgot had been standing by the door. “Eyck, you may go. That’s everyone.” The man shut the door.

“Everyone,” she addressed the room, and easily held their attention. “I’d very much like you all to meet Jaskier, our newest and most wonderful poet.” A few patrons raised a glass, and he realized just how thirsty he was. 

He turned to Yennefer as the room went back to their socializing. “Thank you, Viscountess, for inviting me.” 

“Please,” she gave a small and sardonic laugh. “You have no need to uphold any formality with me. I know who you are, Julian.” 

Jaskier nearly toppled over at the sound of his real name. “Ah, yes. You see,—“ 

“Don’t worry, poet. You will not be known as that man here. Here, you shall be known as your true self. Welcome to my circle,” she crossed back to her seat at the table. 

Jaskier took up easy conversation with a woman named Priscilla, who he learned was an aspiring musician and poet herself, hoping to get on the right side of the right people. he had smoked an entire cigarette and knocked back two glasses of the choice alcohol of a cheerful man called Mousesack before retiring to his seat at the table. 

He was sat next to his brooding neighbor, and was almost certain he saw a glimmer of success within Yennefer's eye. 

The man was dressed almost entirely in black, a dinner jacket adorned with maroon accents, his stark white hair simply styled. He kept his abhorring haze locked onto the table in front of him, his posture stiffly held and his hands resting, no, not quite resting but pressing into his thighs. He looked like a child dressed up begrudgingly because his mother threatened him if he refused. 

And Jaskier, for the first time, took a true look into his neighbor’s face. He was sculpted perfectly, completely chiseled by the artist’s tools. His nose curved up ever so slightly at the end, his lips, although he looked deeply disturbed by the entire event, curled up into a permanent smile. His eyes were a mulled honey, deep and knowing amber color. across his cheekbone, above his brow, and, as Jaskier saw later, slashed down from his forehead to his cheek, laid deep scarring that made Jaskier’s mouth water at the implication of the sheer amount of stories he must have held. 

He was truthfully beautiful. 

Jaskier sat, entirely enraptured by the creature, inspiration coming to a convecting boil beneath his skin and in the pit of his stomach, and suddenly it hit him: this man was to be his new muse. 

“Jaskier,” Yennefer interrupted his thoughts. “This is Geralt. I believe he lives in the apartment across from yours.” 

Geralt blinked, turned his head to Yennefer, who had already taken up conversation with the photographer seated on the other side of her, and exhaled sharply from his nose. 

Jaskier stood and poured two glasses of rum. He felt, as he crossed the room, a shift in Geralt's gaze. He returned to his seat and set one glass in front of himself and put the second directly in front of geralt. 

He turned his head a bit to the side as if to look at Jaskier fully, but trained his eyes again to the table. 

He had considered the drink. 

Jaskier took a sip of his own glass and turned to Geralt, a bubble of confidence trailing up into his esophagus. “You look utterly miserable.” 

He thought, for a moment, that Geralt had allowed an expression of laughter flash on his otherwise stoic face. He took up the drink and sipped from the glass. 

“That’s because I am,” he replied, simple and a little flat, but Jaskier felt as if all of the air had been sucked out of the room, garroted by his rough baritone. 

Geralt, after a moment’s thought, turned his head completely, and Jaskier finally saw the entirety of his face. 

If Jaskier believed in any god, he’d personally be thanking them for Geralt’s presence. 

He realized that he had been staring at the larger scar that ran across the right side of his face because he suddenly averted his eyes, hiding his gaze in a corner and sipped from the glass again. 

“Ask about it. Everyone does,” he said after a moment. 

Jaskier did not speak, but instead pulled his gilded cigarette case and his matchbox from inside of his jacket. “Do you smoke, Geralt?” 

Geralt’s eyes flitted from the corner to Jaskier’s face, furiously searching it. Jaskier noticed that he made eye contact with him not once. It was quite obvious to him that he was focused on the space between his brows. 

He shifted in his seat as his eyes settled. “No.” 

Jaskier tucked his cigarette case and matchbox back in his jacket, without taking one for himself, and looked back at Geralt. 

“You’re full of stories, darling. I can tell. but it’s truly no use in prying them out. That’s how they become muddled and wrong,” Jaskier said, touching his fingertips to his cupid’s bow in thought. “And any good poet knows that a story must ebb and flow, natural, like the tide.” 

Geralt blinked. “My father once told me that all poets are liars.” 

“Your father is exceedingly correct,” Jaskier laughed. Oh, if Geralt had any idea how true that statement was. 

He received a low hum in reply, and watched Geralt take another drink. He took one himself in their silence. 

“So, what do you do for money?” Jaskier asked. “You must do something quite profitable if you live where you do.” 

“Yennefer put me up there,” Geralt said, eyes trained, again, between Jaskier’s brows. 

Jaskier shifted in his seat, his interest piqued. “She paid for it, you mean?” 

Geralt gave a slight nod. 

“What did you do that made her so fond of you?” Jaskier pressed, suddenly abandoning the distance he had given Geralt. 

Geralt's eyes averted to his hands in his lap, and returned to the corner. “I’m a veteran. She hired me for a job. The flat is how she payed me.” 

“A veteran? Was it a kind of job involving any sort of combat?” 

“You ask too many questions, poet,” Geralt turned his head back to look at the table. 

He found that Geralt was lovely company, despite how Jaskier was the one who had to do most of the talking. They conversed lightly on several topics, and Jaskier had a mind to think that geralt had become sort of fond of him. 

While they spoke, they drank. Jaskier filled their glasses each time they spoke anew, yet he found himself losing control of his mouth much easier than his companion. His tolerance was significantly lower. 

Geralt was made up of about twice as much muscle as Jaskier, after all. 

Jaskier woke the next morning, unable to recall most of what had transpired. He did however, wake on his sofa, a pillow from his bed under his head, and a blanket from the same covering him as the sunlight filtered into the small sitting room and his head nearly splitting in two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this feels more of what the length of these chapters are going to be. also, i'm not too sure how long this is going to be, but it's probably not going to be super long


End file.
